


Succession Planning

by kangeiko



Series: More Joy Day 2019 [4]
Category: Princess Bride (1987)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-11-06 02:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17930930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: People management's the worst part of any job.





	Succession Planning

**Author's Note:**

> For pigtailed_goddess, as part of More Joy Day's fic offer.

The problem with pirating is that it doesn’t really allow you much time for doing anything else. You can’t take up gardening, for example, or knitting. The most you could stretch to is probably coin-collecting, and that’s not as much fun if you have to bury your collection. He has a chess set, admittedly, but there’s no one to play with.  
  
That’s not to say that the job doesn’t have any high points, but it’s not exactly a life of luxury. And the prisoners always scream and carry on endlessly before they’re executed; frankly, it gives him a headache. But a job’s a job, and he has always prided himself on good work and fine craftsmanship.  _See them? They were killed by the Dread Pirate Roberts!_  It was enough to instill a fine sense of terror in many a heart and make him swell with pride.   
  
Still…  
  
A job’s a job, but sooner or later you do have to consider what other things you might want in life. You couldn’t bring a wife home to the ship of the Dread Pirate Roberts, and you certainly couldn’t raise any little ones there, what with all the killing and pillaging and pirating generally going on. And as for a hobby? Forget it. He couldn’t even find anyone to play a game of chess with, for goodness’ sake.  
  
“Please don’t kill me,” the captive says, looking up at him. The politeness is unusual - normally there’s begging and screaming, but all rather desperate and uncouth - and thhis captive sits perfectly still, Jessick’s hands still about his neck.  
  
“Wait.” Jessick stills, obediently. “Why should I make an exception of you?”   
  
The captive takes a moment to touch his hands to his bruised neck, swallowing convulsively. He is a comely young man, with finely-boned hands and a charming face. If he were anyplace else but the deck of this ship, he might do well. (Not here. Not on  _this_  ship.) “Because I have to live. I have to live and marry my true love, Buttercup.” The captive’s - the boy’s - eyes are bright and full of wonder when he speaks about her, as if the mere mention of her has put the fire of life back into him. His face is ruddy and flushed with emotion as he speaks of her golden hair, and her kind smile, and the curve of her neck. He gestures with his hands - his lovely, fine-boned, fencer’s hands - to show the bow of her lip, and the flutter of her lashes. He sighs over her voice, soft and melodious as any angel’s.  
  
Pirating is a job, the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks, an odd pang at having to destroy such devotion over something so petty as being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  _I should retire from it all and leave someone else to deal with it,_  he thinks, not for the time.  _The people management is the worst part of any -_  he stops.  
  
Pirating is a job, yes, the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks,  _and part of that is the succession planning._  He had intended to give the ship and the title to Jessick when he retired - perhaps next year, perhaps the year after - but something about Jessick has always rubbed him up the wrong way. The man doesn’t have any hobbies or loves other than pirating, and that’s a strange thing in a person. The Dread Pirate Roberts had invited him in for a game of chess one night, and Jessick had just stared at him blankly before admitting that he didn’t play.  
  
(What kind of a man doesn’t play chess?)  
  
The boy is still speaking, desperate, now; speaking not for himself but for his love. He must live, he says, so he can win enough money to marry her. The way he says the word  _must_  echoes with a strange power, as if it could lift mountains through its certainty.  
  
Well, the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks, that’s certainly ambition enough.  _And if he fails, well. That’s easily remedied._  He hesitates, his hand on his sword. “We’ll try it out for a day,” he says at last, watching the boy. “You will be -” what could he be, this helpless civilian? He couldn’t climb the rigging, and he couldn’t fight, and he certainly couldn’t  _pirate_. “My personal attendant,” he decides at last, and ignores Jessick’s eyebrows rising. “You will set out my clothes, and tend to my ablutions, and… and suchlike.” In truth, he has very little idea of what a personal attendant might do, but he imagines that it must be not dissimilar to a valet. Clothes, and cleaning, and suchlike. Jessick’s eyebrows are chasing his receding hairline. The Dread Pirate Roberts scowls. “We’ll see how well you do. I’ll...” he hesitates. “I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” Jessick’s eyebrows slowly lower.  
  
The boy contemplates this. “Very well,” he agrees gravely, as if this was a business proposition and not a mercy. He offers his hand. “Westley,” he says.  
  
 _Ryan,_  the Dread Pirate Roberts almost blurts out, surprised. He scowls instead and jerks a thumb at belowdecks. “My cabin. You can start with the laundry.”  
  
The boy - Westley - nods his thanks, and walks calmly away on unsteady legs.  
  
“A personal attendant?” Jessick asks, incredulous. “He doesn’t even have his sealegs!”  
  
 _No hobbies at all,_  the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks, and shakes his head.   
  
He wonders if Westley plays chess.  
  
*  
  
fin


End file.
